I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.

I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.

Yesterday was our anniversary.
One year, to be exact.
I doubt you remembered.
I barely remembered.
But when I did,
It hit me.
All the pain from the last few months
Came at me
Full force,
And I didn’t think I would survive it.
I guess I’m still trying to figure out
How to survive it.

I don't hate you.
I hate myself
For letting it happen.
For saying yes
When I meant no.
For letting you touch me
And obeying your every command
To touch you.
For doing it not once
But twice,
Even though I knew I'd feel horrible.
Even though I still feel horrible.
I don't hate you.
I hate myself.
I hate myself.

You don’t know me.
You don’t even realize
that something’s wrong,
that I’m not the little girl
I used to be.
You don’t realize
that the bandaged “mosquito bites”
on my arms and legs
are self-harm scars
that I’m too ashamed
to let you see.
You don’t realize
how much it stings
to watch almost every person
I’ve ever cared about
leave.
You don’t realize
that I still feel guilty
every time I eat.
You don’t realize
just how much I smoke
and how much I drink.
You don’t even realize
that you don’t know me.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.